


The Transmutation of Sherlock Holmes

by Coppercrow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Multi, Zombie Apocalypse, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coppercrow/pseuds/Coppercrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is not suited to the apocalypse. While John thrives, he finds himself growing increasingly irrelevant in a changing world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Transmutation of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brutti_ma_buoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/gifts).



> This story took on a life of its own when I was writing it. Hopefully though it turned out alright despite me being somewhat rusty in my Sherlock writing skills.

"Sherlock, hurry up."

"Not now John."

John grabbed him by the arm and yanked him around. His eyes were hard. The soldier was showing through more and more these days. Only to be expected, given the situation.

"Sherlock, there is a pack of chompers heading this way. If you want to live, you'll leave with me now," he ordered.

"One more minute. I need these papers-"

"Those bloody papers aren't worth your life, Sherlock," he snapped back.

Sherlock snarled and grabbed the stack of papers, expression cold.

"And here I was thinking that as feeble and insignificant as your mind is, you could grasp the importance of this information. You are a doctor after all."

"This could just be another red herring. I'd prefer that you remain alive over a mythical vaccine."

Sherlock glared at John before sweeping out of the room. The effect was diminished by the lack of a coat - John had forced him into more practical clothes years ago. It was one of many changes, the least of them in fact. A change of clothes was nothing compared to the collapse of society after all.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

Back at base, Sherlock stalked off to his room, slamming the door behind him. He surveyed the bland space with disgust before dumping the armful of papers on the ancient mattress that passed for a bed. 221B was by this point no more than a fond memory, along with times when there was Wi-Fi and phone coverage. It had hardly been the most defendable location, or suitable for their every increasing band of misfits.

He paced the room, furious energy channelled into unsatisfying movement. Why couldn't John understand how important this was?! He was on the edge of discovering something important, something vital-

Only to John, it wasn't vital. Vital was surviving, was his wife and daughter surviving. John would be lost without Mary and Elizabeth. Hopes and dreams had little space in a harsh world such as this. A vaccine was one such hope, and it wasn't vital, just a nice thought that might get them killed in John's mind.

John failed to understand that he needed this. He was going mad like this. His mind was screaming out 'BORED' and he had no way to appease it. There were no secrets to deduce; he knew them all. Every insidious little fact, written on their faces. Boring. Lestrade. Molly. John. Mary. Mycroft was just insufferable, but then that was his default setting.

He couldn’t even have a good snipe at his brother; they always ended up shouting and then Mary yelled at them because they’d woken Elizabeth again, and couldn’t they continue their argument at a more civilised hour?

Pulling at his hair, he gave a strangled yell and flopped back on the mattress. The springs dug painfully into his back and then it was official: Sherlock Holmes loathed the apocalypse. 

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

The problem was that the infection showed up as flu-like symptoms at first. It wasn’t until further down the track that the truly unpleasant symptoms showed up over a month later.

Thus it had been innocuous at first. That was the point. No one had noticed until it was too late. Even he’d missed it – he’s had a fascinating case involving triplet serial killers. It wasn’t until people started chomping down on anything that moved that the authorities noticed something wrong, and by that point it was too far gone for anything but damage control.

They weren’t zombies, for all that some idiots called them that. Of that he was absolutely sure. The scraps of pre-collapse research he’d gathered over the last three years indicated a parasite of some sort. A virulent, highly infectious parasite that gave people a desire to bite the non-infected. Bite, mind you, and not eat. It was hardly an effective reproductive strategy for a disease if it killed potential hosts. 

No, the infected simply bit and slobbered and did everything in their power to infect others as their body became increasingly necrotic. After a period of several months, bulbous swellings developed all over their bodies that grew in size until they ruptured explosively, scattering parasite-ridden body fluids in all directions. It was an ingenious method of transmission that, in other circumstances, he would have liked to study.

However, given that said parasite had quickly decimated humanity, he’d had neither the opportunity nor the facilities to do so. Instead, he’d been reduced to forcing John to take him on trips to research facilities that had been working on the parasite pre-collapse.

They’d been rumours, hints of a viable vaccine just prior to collapse and he knew that if he searched hard enough, he’d find it. He had to. The other option was an entire life of this and to be perfectly honest, he might just shoot himself rather than face that.

It was not a very cheery thought.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

"You appear out of sorts, brother mine."

Sherlock paused in his playing, leveling a glare at his brother. Mycroft said nothing, but his smirk said it all. Damn him.

"Oh shut up Mycroft."

"I'm merely deducing what is oblivious. You have been in this state since you returned from your last tip with Doctor Watson. Trouble in paradise?" Mycroft continued. Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. However, two could play at that game.

"Well deuce someone else. Perhaps Lestrade. You do seem fond of him," he snapped back. Mycroft gaped before his face smoothed out in denial.

"I hardly think that is accurate-"

Got him.

"Oh I think you've got yourself a goldfish, brother mine."

"You-”

"If you don't stop arguing, I will shoot both of you," yelled Mary from the other side of the room. It was sign of how well trained she had them that they did not as much as protest. 

"Yes Mary."

"Apologies Mrs Watson."

With that, Mycroft stalked off (no doubt to find Lestrade) and Sherlock resumed playing. Music at least occupied his mind for a time, however brief.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

In the dark of night, Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

Boredom was a ravenous creature that gnawed at his mind incessantly. There was no relief from it. He'd honed his mind to absolute precision. It was irrelevant now. He was irrelevant. His data was useless, and there was no use for him in this stupid, boring life. 

There were no cases to occupy his thoughts, nothing to stop his brain spinning. out. of. control...

He wanted to scream. His mind screamed out instead, an endless chant of ‘BORED’.

He needed something.

His mind whirred and raced but there was NO USE FOR IT. No use for a consulting detective in a world of soldiers and doctors and plague and never ceasing running. What use being able to deduce a person when it didn't have any relevance to their survival? What use did he serve? No purpose, no point, no relevance, no use, no nothing nothing NOTHING...

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

“That’s it!” he exclaimed, jabbing at the paper.

“What’s ‘it’?” Molly asked, staring at him curiously. She’d changed, Molly Hooper had. She’d had to, to survive. He was relatively sure it had cured her of any lingering infatuation with him, and in the wake of it, she’d demonstrated just how capable she was. He’d always known, of course. She’d helped him fake his death. But that Molly and post-collapse Molly were two different creatures.

“Baskerville.”

“..You had a case there, didn't you?" she asked hesitantly. He gave no sign of hearing, but she watched as his eyes lit up with a manic light.

"Of course it would be Baskerville. Top of the line, heavily monitored - it's perfect-" he exclaimed, but Molly had had enough.

"Perfect for what, Sherlock?" she interrupted. He turned to stare at her with pale eyes.

"The vaccine, Molly. Baskerville was the last site of viable vaccine research. Just before things began to breakdown, a broadcast went out. It's what I've been searching for - the location of the broadcast. Three years of searching and I've found it-" he paused, before leaping to his feet.

"John must be told. The game is on! Come along Molly, he shouted, dragging her along behind him. 

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

"No."

"John-"

"No Sherlock. Not this time. I am not running after you on some bloody wild goose chase-"

"This is important-"

"Stuff importance! I happen to like being alive. Running of the god cursed Baskerville is not conductive to survival, Sherlock," John snapped at Sherlock.

If there had ever been any doubt about John's past in the army, it was gone now. Any softness that he had gained in civilian life had long being stripped away, leaving only the cold practicality of a soldier. He was harsher - all sharp edges angles without the civility of cups of tea and toast to pad them. 

He was marvelous, Sherlock mused. Marvelous, and very stubborn.

"It's important to my survival."

The bleakness of his tone must have shocked John, for his expression faltered. Sensing an opening, Sherlock pressed onward.

"I'm going mad, John. This life...I have no use. I'm irrelevant. I need find this vaccine. I need a purpose to go on, something to occupy my mind. So let me have this," he said, voice brittle.

John looked back him, pain in his eyes. Meanwhile, they'd gained an audience. Mycroft stood beside Lestrade, expression unreadable. No doubt he found such shows of emotion distasteful. 

"It'd be dangerous."

Sherlock blinked.

"I thought you liked danger," he replied carefully. John looked back, thoughtful.

"I think we've had more than our fair share of danger by now," he said even as he began to smile reluctantly, "so I suppose a little more can't hurt."

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

After that, planning went relatively quickly. It had taken Sherlock only a handful of minutes to decide on the best route to Baskerville. It had taken him several more minutes to convince John that it was the best option.

In the end though, he conceded that the A303 was the only viable option. It was the most direct route, and certainly less treacherous than taking more minor roads. 

Even then, it was still close to 200 miles.

John tried to remain positive. 

Sherlock was less optimistic.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

The journey was miserable.

Even the relatively good weather of late spring, there was no way of making a 200 mile walk any better.

In the end, it was a party of three that had departed from London: John, Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock had complained bitterly about his brother's presence, but they all knew he might prove essential. After all, there was a faint possibility that Baskerville might still be operational, and in case Mycroft would be the key to getting in. 

However, as the days worn on, even John's determined optimism lagged. It wasn't that the walking was hard - the A303 was a blessing, for all it was in disrepair, providing a relatively easy path to follow. It was simply the monotony.

The road was littered carcasses of cars fleeing London, abandoned when they ran out of fuel. In the oft exposed expanses of land, they provided shelter during the night.

The days blurred together into an endless series of sore feet and aching shoulders from their packs. Conversation dwindled and died - even Sherlock was quiet, not even sniping at Mycroft.

One memorable night was spent camping amongst the standing stones of Stonehenge. So used the battered and decaying metropolis that was London, there was a surrealism to lying on grass and staring up at stars unimpaired by city lights, and without the lurking threat of the Biting Plague which was ever prevalent back at home.

John and Sherlock had sat on one of the stones, staring out at countryside. For a long time, they were silent. Then John turned to Sherlock, expression more peaceful than it had been in years.

"We should leave London...make a home out here," he murmured. Sherlock had not replied, and in the days that followed John's words weighed heavy in his mind.

Leave London?

It seemed inconceivable, made even more so by what that would result in. He could see it now. A quiet life in the country, living off the land, surviving. Spending the rest of his life with the same people. It made his stomach churn. Boring, utterly boring.

But what was the alternative? Convince John to stay in London? Stay in London without John. Survive for a few years, and then become another shuffling host to parasites? Find the vaccine and live longer?

It was all equally bleak, with the vaccine or not.

By the time they reached Dartmoor, he still did not know what the best option was. Perhaps there wasn't one.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

It all went to pieces when they reached Baskerville.

The chompers came out of nowhere, a swarm that moved with alarming speed. While one by itself wasn't a threat - they bit rather than ate you - a swarm was like a school of piranhas. 

The next few minutes were chaos, a blur of gunshots and movement as they attempted to fend off the swarm. Sherlock wielded his machete with almost disturbing finesse, beheading chomper after chomper. Some looked more human, while others were bloated and necrotic. In his peripheral vision he saw Mycroft wielding a sabre with deadly intent, John firing off round after round.

Behind him, he heard shots fired. A glance showed soldiers approaching out of Baskerville, mowing down chompers. 

Then John gave a grunt of pain and everything came crashing down.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

Sherlock lost track of the next few days.

Thinking back, he received only a garbled succession of images: John clutching his bitten arm, face ashen; John being led away by lab-coated scientists; John strapped to a bed, burning up.

Ten percent.

That was the likelihood they'd given that their treatment of John would be successful. The vaccine was only affective before infection. Treatment post-infection was more difficult, they'd explained.

While Sherlock had stored the information in his mind, he hadn't really been there. Everything was focused on John. He couldn't lose John, not now. So he'd sat beside John's bed, not sleeping, barely eating. He'd ignored his body's complaints - it was transport.

On day four, he was so engrossed in John that he missed the doctor's approach right up until they jabbed him with a sedative.

 

x.x.x.x.x.x

 

"You awake?"

Sherlock blinked groggily, vision swimming. Had someone spoken? It sound like-

"John?!" he exclaimed, jerking upright. He almost regretted it moments later when his head started throbbing, but it was worth it to see John smiling wanly at hi from the other bed. He looked pale and tired, but he was alive. It was the best sight he'd ever seen.

"As you can see, I'm alive. Bloody miracle, really," he said and Sherlock, who didn't believe in miracles, was inclined to make an exception just this once. John being alive qualified as a miracle.

"And where is my brother?" he inquired reluctantly. John laughed.

"Oh, he's busy staging a takeover of the facility. He's got plans to maximize vaccine production, and retake his position as the British Government while he's at it, no doubt."

"Typical."

John paused, looking at Sherlock for a long moment. Sherlock looked back. He'd nearly lost John, and he found himself somewhat reluctant to take his chances again. Perhaps a change was in order.

"Countryside sounding good?" he inquired.

"Oh god yes," was John's reply.

Their resultant laughter could be heard down the hallway.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone says anything, I've never been to England so all details regarding the A303 and etc are based from Google Maps, so there may be some inaccuracies. Also, I kept the location of Baskerville relatively vague beyond it being in Dartmoor for similar reasons. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this.


End file.
